


a bene placito

by Claudia_flies



Series: MCU Kink Bingo [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Christmas, Explicit Sexual Content, Gift Exchange, Gift Fic, M/M, MCU kink bingo 2017, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Rough Sex, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 16:53:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13104468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_flies/pseuds/Claudia_flies
Summary: “Jesus fucking Christ, Steve! What do I have to do, put you over my knee?” Bucky curses, dragging his friend out through the flimsy door of the bar.Another night, another fight.





	a bene placito

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hopeless--Geek (wuzzy90)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wuzzy90/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【冬盾】a bene placito 尽欢](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380867) by [carolchang829](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolchang829/pseuds/carolchang829)



> This is a Christmas present for the lovely hopeless-geek for the Biceps and Things WhatsApp group Secret Santa exchange. I hope you enjoy ;)
> 
> Please heed the tags. This fic contains a lot of very under negotiated kink. So, don't do as Steve and Bucky do!
> 
> Beta'd by the Lovely Zilia as always, whom I cannot live without!
> 
> This is also for the MCU Kink Bingo Steve x Bucky square.

 

 

 **a bene placito** _(Latin)_ \- ‘from one well pleased’, ‘at will’ or ‘at one's pleasure’

 

**1939**

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Steve! What do I have to do, put you over my knee?” Bucky curses, dragging his friend out through the flimsy door of the bar.

Another night, another fight.

“Fuck you, Barnes!” Steve fumes. His face is crimson, but Bucky isn’t sure if it’s because he’s being dragged out of the bar or because of what Bucky’s just said. He’s not sure if he cares.

Steve rages and grumbles all the way down the street. It’s bitterly cold, and all the shopfronts are decked out with Christmas decorations. Bucky finally lets go of his arm when they reach a street car. Bucky’d ran out of Luckies in the first bar. There had been a redhead. And a blonde. They’d liked snatching the lit cigarettes from between Bucky’s lips and taking a drag each. Leaving bright red lipstick marks on the filter. A regular Thursday night, at that.

That had been what’d distracted him from Steve walking up to guy pawing the waitress and punching him in the face. Not that Bucky wouldn't have done the same, but Steve just doesn’t have the constitution to follow through on another fight. He’s still nursing a now-faded black eye from two weeks ago from an alleyway in the Heights.

Bucky pays the street vendor for his smokes and turns to say “Steve…”, who is suddenly nowhere in sight. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he swears, looking up into the dark Brooklyn sky, and heads back into the bar at a dead run, smokes crushed in his hand. He barges through the door just in time to see Steve throw a gut punch into a guy about three times his size.

From there on, the night runs its usual course. Steve ends up with a busted lip and Bucky’s knuckles are bruised all to hell.

It’s not the first time, but it’ll fucking be the last, Bucky swears to himself silently. He’s fuming and slightly drunk and it makes him reckless. Not to mention the ruined smokes. Steve tries to make conversation as they walk home, makes a joke or two, but Bucky’s not having it. His fingers are itching to grab the back of Steve’s neck and bend him over here on the street like he’d threatened to, but he doesn’t.

There’s something hot and anxious in his belly; he wants this to be somewhere private. He wants to see Steve squirm, to slide open his now-wrinkled slacks with his face flushed and embarrassed. It’d never felt like this with the nuns, waiting for his turn, hearing the smacks of the cane and yelps of pain. This is something totally different, but Bucky struggles to find the words for exactly how.

As soon as the apartment door clicks shut behind them, Bucky slouches down on the threadbare couch and shoves the rickety coffee table away with his foot. Making room. Steve’s standing frozen by the door, his fingers fidgeting with the pockets of his slacks, eyes round and wide.

“I’m never one for idle threats, Rogers.” Bucky’s voice sounds strange even to his own ears, low and gravelly.

“Bucky,” Steve says, but he isn’t saying ‘no’. That hot, squirmy feeling in Bucky’s belly intensifies. He doesn’t want to call it arousal, because this shouldn’t be about that, right?

“Over my knees,” Bucky commands, and he can see the bob of Steve’s Adam's apple as he swallows. They stare at each other for a series of long, drawn-out seconds, the challenge simmering between them. Tension a string pulled taut in the air.

Then Steve lets out a breath, just a hiss between his teeth, and walks over to the couch where Bucky’s sprawled on the lumpy cushions.

“Pants off,” Bucky says, still low and dangerous.

He’s watching Steve’s every move. The way he avoids Bucky’s eyes, the way he fumbles with the button and zipper, the tight slope of his shoulders. Eventually, Steve gets his slacks undone and they slide down his thighs, revealing the milky flesh to Bucky’s gaze.

Then Steve bends at the knees, laying his belly over Bucky’s legs, his ass up in the air. Bucky can feel him trembling.

He lays a hand over the small of Steve’s back. The skin is hot and sweaty, through the cotton fabric of his shirt. The touch seems to still Steve’s body though; he’s suddenly going lax, breath escaping him in a whoosh. Then Bucky hooks his fingers under the waistband of Steve’s underpants, feeling his whole body stiffen all over again in Bucky’s lap.

Steve lets out a strangled “Bucky!” as Bucky slides them down over the swell of Steve’s ass and down his thighs. Steve won’t learn his lesson if it’s not on the bare, Bucky thinks dazedly. Steve’s ass is small and tight and round. Bucky would call it ‘pert’ if he could get away with it.

Steve’s breathing is harsh. Short pants against his balled fist and the worn fabric of the couch. It makes his ass tremble and Bucky can’t help but lay his palm over it, feel the smooth roundness, the softness of the skin.

“You are going to learn your lesson, and not do it again,” he says, and his voice shakes, suddenly flush with nerves. Steve mumbles something into his fists, and Bucky pinches the soft skin between two fingers.

“What?” Bucky asks, emboldened by Steve’s low cry.

“Yes! I said yes,” Steve yelps, breathing hitching just slightly.

“Alright,” he says, laying a palm over Steve’s ass, measuring, feeling its soft fullness, and then he pulls back.

The first smack lands on the left cheek, and Steve’s body goes stiff and the skin reddens instantly. Bucky’s belly tightens and he can feel his cock now, stiff and eager in his own slacks. He’s not sure if Steve can feel it against his stomach, not sure if he cares.

Bucky runs his hand over the red mark and hums. Then he pulls back, gives the right cheek a matching smack. Steve grunts.

The third hit lands square in the middle, right on the fleshy sit spots, and Steve lets out a low gasp. Bucky’s fully hard now, and he can’t deny that it’s the sight of Steve over his lap, ass red in the air, that’s doing it to him.

He spreads his legs, giving himself more room, and adjusts Steve more securely on his lap, who goes surprisingly easily, almost docile right then. Bucky lands the next two hits on each cheek. The skin is red and hot now, and Steve’s breaths are loud in the quiet of the room. Each smack accompanied by a high-pitched grunt.

He’s shifting now on Bucky’s lap, and Bucky thinks he can feel the press of Steve’s dick against his thigh. He’s hard too and Bucky wonders if it’s leaving a wet smear on the fabric, if, when he lets Steve up, he’ll see the evidence there. Wet trails of Steve’s spunk. The thought makes him feel hot and squirmy all over.

Then Steve shifts again and Bucky can see the tight furl of his asshole between his reddening cheeks. It, as much as anything else, makes him flush like a virgin schoolgirl, so he makes the next hit land squarely in the middle of Steve’s ass, wishing he could reach that sweet little divot with his palm, make it red and sore.

He makes the next two hits count, the smacks echoing in the room, and Steve can barely hold in his shout. Bucky wants him to make noise, wants to be the one to break that mule-stubbornness. He lets the final two smacks land right on the middle of the underside of Steve’s butt, feeling the soft flesh give under each hit. He’s counted ten spanks, and Steve’s ass is red and hot. He’s shifting restlessly, his knees spreading, his bunched-up underpants and slacks fallen down to his ankles.

Bucky’s not sure why he does it then; why he brings his index finger into his mouth and gets it wet with saliva. Why he presses it between Steve’s spanked ass cheeks and runs the wet digit over the pucker of Steve’s anus.

Steve freezes, his whole body going stiff at the touch, back arching over Bucky’s lap. Bucky just rubs over the tight furl, feeling it contracting under his fingers. He doesn’t want to stop, doesn't want it to end. He spreads Steve’s ass cheeks open with his other hand, laying his elbow over Steve’s back to keep him still, and spits. The gob of saliva lands squarely on Steve’s anus and he makes a noise much like a keen, knees locking sharply.

Bucky runs his fingers through his own spit, getting Steve wet. He isn’t thinking much of anything right there and then, eyes and mind and spirit focused on that tiny fleshy pucker. Feeling it slowly starting to give under his ministrations. It’s not long before he can slide a fingertip inside. The clutch of Steve’s wet hole is tight and hot.

Steve’s panting, face pressed into the dirty canvas of the sofa, feet scrabbling for purchase on the worn wood floor as Bucky works his finger in and out. He spits again, working the spittle inside with his finger, listening to Steve’s heavy pants. Those low grunts he can’t seem to stop every time Bucky pushes past the second knuckle.

Then he finds something inside, just by accident, that makes Steve honest-to-God whine. It feels like a small, firm nub, and Bucky prods it again, just to hear that high whine another time. Steve’s thighs are trembling, he’s pushing back against Bucky’s finger. Almost fucking himself, Bucky thinks, and then he has to stop thinking about it just to stop himself from coming in his pants.

He tries to hit that spot with each thrust of his finger now, watching Steve rocking into it, watching him hide his face in his hands and in the dirty upholstery of the sofa. The way the red cheeks of his ass quiver and tighten with each flex.

“Bucky,” he says, voice cracked and breathless, and then his asshole suddenly contracts wildly around Bucky’s finger and Bucky can feel a wet stain spreading on the fabric of his pants.

There’s a moment of pure bliss with Steve’s hitched breaths in his ear as his body shakes with the aftershocks, the tight heat of his anus still around Bucky’s finger and the insistent throb of his own neglected erection pressing against Steve’s belly.

Then Steve’s scampering up from his lap, yanking his trousers up as fast as he can. Disappearing through the bedroom door before Bucky has a chance to say anything. He thinks about following Steve, but instead, he goes down the hall and locks himself into the tiny shared bathroom, jerking himself off in less than 30 seconds. He wouldn’t ever admit to a soul that he thinks about the tight clutch of Steve’s asshole around his finger, thinks about what it would feel like gripping his cock.

When he comes back into the apartment, Steve has gone to sleep, or at least is pretending to sleep, and Bucky doesn’t call him out on it. It’s probably better this way.

They don’t talk about it the next day. Or the day after that.

But no matter their mutually agreed silence, it happens again about four months later. It’s exactly the same. The bar fight. The angry “I’ll put you over my knee.” The stains that Bucky washes from his trousers in the shared washroom down the hall.

They still don’t talk about it.

Then there’s the war and the draft, and then Steve’s pulling him off a cold metal table a hundred pounds heavier and near-on ten inches taller.

It’s not like Bucky was ever going to be bending Captain America over his knee.

 

 

**2016**

 

Steve always finds that the low hum of the Quinjet has a focusing effect on his mind, narrows it down to just the oncoming fight. It’s soothing while he’s strapping on his helmet and pulling on his gloves. This time it’s marred by the incessant noise of Christmas tunes Tony is insisting on blasting through the speakers. He’s not even in the jet to suffer through them. Steve does have to admit that his red and gold Iron Man suit is fairly Christmassy, flitting in and out of sight through the windows as he zooms around the jet, making rude hand gestures at them when everyone ignores him.

Bucky is somewhere behind him, gearing up with Natasha. Steve ignores their low, murmured Russian most of the time these days. It’s easier that way. To pretend not to hear it at all, to not see how Bucky refuses to catch his eye on purpose, refuses to sit next to him at every team dinner and every debrief.

“Give him time,” Natasha had said, with a soft hand on his shoulder one night in the common room, but Steve isn’t sure how much time his heart has left to give. Maybe it’s a fool’s errand waiting for Bucky, maybe it’s been too long and they’ve both changed too much. If the man Bucky remembers was that skinny punk from Brooklyn, the Steve of today is always going to fall short of those expectations.

He chuckles humorlessly at his own pun, and switches his comms to the shared channel, trying to ignore the music.

“Barton, lower the ramp,” he calls out and the back of the jet starts to open almost instantly. The howling wind suddenly erases all trace of the music and the Russian words spoken not far behind him.

“Already on it, Cap” he hears in his ear with Barton’s cheerful voice from the cockpit. “Let’s go and give HYDRA a Christmas present they won’t forget in a hurry.” Steve smiles to himself. Barton’s a good guy.

Steve’s walking down the ramp when a painfully familiar voice calls out from behind him. “Where’s your parachute?”

Bucky is suddenly right there, his cool blue eyes staring at Steve like they have no idea who he is. _You’re my mission_ suddenly echoes in Steve’s head, and he can’t help but flinch.

“Don’t need it for this one, Buck,” he says to cover the lapse. He can just dive into the water as always and swim to the entry point to the compound. It’s always worked out fine in the past. Bucky seemingly disagrees with him, grunting and yanking a pack off the rack by the wall, shoving a chute into Steve’s hands. “Put this on.”

There’s something on Bucky’s face, some micro-expression, that makes Steve push the chute back. That makes him want to act out.

“Don’t need it, Buck.”

Something mutinous flickers through Bucky’s eyes then, just a for a split second, and he opens his mouth and says, “What the fuck do I have to do, Rogers, put you over my knee?”

Steve’s too shocked to respond to that achingly familiar phrase. He can feel his mouth hanging open, and even Bucky seems surprised at his own words, his expression suddenly unsure, mouth open like he wants to say something, or take back what he just uttered.

The moment is broken by Clint over the comms. “Coming up on the drop zone, Cap!”

Without saying another word, Steve turns on his heel, walks down the ramp and jumps out of the jet into the howling wind. The seconds stretch into minutes, and when he finally hits the water, his mind is clear.

The whole operation goes mostly to plan, as much as any op with the Avengers usually does, with a few sprains and cuts and one dislocated shoulder. Dr. Cho has the medical wing prepped and ready as they all disembark from the jet. She’s on duty even on Christmas Eve.

The lights of New York glitter around them, the City decked out for the holidays. Stark Tower chief among them, Tony’s signature red and gold lighting up the tower in a variety of Christmas-themed patterns. Steve had thought it garish, but had kept the thought to himself.

Steve waves everyone off with a “debrief the day after tomorrow, in the afternoon, guys. Everyone get some sleep!” to which he gets a chorused response of grumblings and a shout of “Merry Christmas!” from Clint. Most of the team stays on the landing pad, talking through their Christmas plans, but Steve doesn’t have the heart to stay. Bucky has already disappeared wherever he goes to decompress after a mission.

He runs his fingers through his sweaty hair as he finally gets to his apartment, fantasizing about a hot shower and a microwave burrito. He hasn’t bothered with Christmas decorations. It all feels so commercial and garish now. He misses the pine cones and paper garlands, strings of popcorn sewn together with a thread. Tony would laugh and call him an old man, if he knew.

There’s a shadow waiting for him in the darkened living room when he walks in, haloed by the city lights. Steve would know the breadth of those shoulders anywhere.

“I told you,” Bucky rasps as he steps away from the window. His eyes are flashing with heat. Arousal sparks in Steve’s belly at that look, sudden and fierce and overwhelming. His dick hardening in his uniform pants. “Over the arm of the couch,” Bucky directs him, pointing towards the sectional that dominates Steve’s living room.

The armrests on the couch are round and high, perfect for leaning against during a movie night with a cushion or two. Perfect, too, for bending over, with his toes pressing on the floor, his ass up, presented for Bucky’s gaze. He has half a mind to point out that it’s not over Bucky’s knee, but before he can, Bucky roars “Pants off!”

Steve’s fingers tremble with eagerness as he fumbles with the zippers and ties of the uniform. The BDU pants scrape over the now-sensitive skin of his thighs as he pushes them down. He doesn’t remove his underwear; he never did before, that was always Bucky and Steve wonders, hopes, whether Bucky remembers.

He does.

As soon as Steve has laid himself over the armrest, he feels a cool set of fingers slide under the elastic of his underwear and drag them down over his ass. The finger dips into the cleft too, dragging over his hole, making Steve gasp.

“I told you to take the chute, but you didn’t,” Bucky rasps. He lays a hot, wide palm over Steve’s ass, possessive and proprietary all at once. “And I told you there would be consequences.”

Steve’s nodding fervently, squirming under the weight of Bucky’s hand, trying to spread his knees wider, to show himself off.

The heavy weight of the metal arm lands on his lower back, the fingers curling into the material of the uniform top, anchoring Steve in place. The hand on his ass lifts off. Steve has a second to draw in a breath when the smack lands.

Bucky’s not holding back: heat spreads out first from the impact, followed by warm waves of pain. Steve can’t help but moan into the couch.

When he was younger, he didn’t want to make any noise, didn’t want to give Bucky the satisfaction. Now he wants Bucky to hear him, to know what this is doing to him, how much he’s missed this, missed them. That it doesn’t matter if he’s Captain America. He’ll still bend over for Bucky and only Bucky.

The second hit is even harder, landing squarely on the middle, over his sensitive sit spots.

From there, Bucky builds a steady rhythm, not too fast and not too slow. Letting Steve feel each hit, but not letting him catch his breath, not letting him get on top of the cresting pain.

It’s glorious.

Steve’s moaning and crying into the couch, his ass on fire. He feels Bucky yanking his pants and underwear further down to his boots, roughly shoving his knees wider apart until Steve’s ass cheeks are spread wide open. The next hit lands right over his exposed hole. It hurts and makes Steve clench down, instinctively pulling his knees together.

Bucky smacks the inside of his thigh. “No, keep your legs spread.”

He presses a thumb against Steve’s hole, dry and rough, and Steve nearly cries with it. Then he’s pulling his hand away again and only a second later bringing it back down in a harsh smack over Steve’s ass.

The hits are landing randomly now, left cheek, right cheek, the tops of his thighs and over his hole. Steve wonders if he’s red and swollen already, wonders if Bucky can see in the low light.

His thighs are shaking with the strain of keeping them spread, his asshole sore and hot, lungs burning like he’s still a 90-pound nothin’ asthmatic bent over Bucky’s knee in their cold-water walk up.

Then suddenly it all stops and the only sound in the room in Steve’s harsh breathing. He can feel the heat from Bucky’s body where he stands, metal hand still clenched tight in Steve’s uniform, pressed into his lower back.

Dry fingers run down the cleft of his ass coming to rest over his hole, rubbing the sore flesh, and Steve keens, pressing back into the contact.

Bucky hums, and spits. Steve jerks at the wetness suddenly over his hole. Squirming as those fingers spread the saliva over him, pressing inside. It hurts the way it always did, and Steve can’t help chanting “please, please, please,” under his breath, begging for more.

Bucky growls something, a word Steve can’t make out, and presses his finger deeper, curling it and hitting Steve’s prostate head-on. He always knew how to do that, ever since the first time.

Steve doesn’t recognize the sound that comes out of his mouth at the mix of pressure deep in his pelvis, the throbbing of his cock against the couch and the ache of his spanked ass. Bucky holds him in place with the iron grip on his uniform, the arm whirring as it recalibrates.

“Please, Buck,” Steve begs, trying to fuck back into the finger inside of him.

Suddenly the finger pulls out of his ass with a pop and the pressure on his lower back eases.

“Stay,” Bucky says with a growl, and then he’s walking away. Steve watches him go, still bent over the arm of the couch. Watches as Bucky disappears down the hall. Steve can hear the door of the bathroom open, can hear the fan starting as Bucky turns on the lights.

He feels hot all over, exposed and cleaved open. Clenching down his anus, feeling the wet slick of Bucky’s saliva, the phantom sensation of his finger inside. It makes Steve pant into the cushion like he’s really getting fucked.

“Bucky, please,” he whispers, knowing that Bucky can’t hear him, can’t see him.

He wants to reach back and touch himself, press his own fingers inside the way he sometimes does in the shower, but Bucky told him to stay and he wants to be good, wants to obey. That thought alone makes him flush harder than any spanking ever would.

He hears Bucky’s footsteps making their way back to the dark living room. He’s still wearing his combat boots, not trying to be stealthy. He wants Steve to hear his approach. Steve’s stomach swoops at the anticipation, at the cruel twist of waiting for what he wants.

Bucky’s back by his side, the heat radiating off him much the same way it does from Steve himself. They’re the same now and that power in Bucky is intoxicating. That knowledge that he can hurt Steve, and is choosing to stay his hand.

“Spread yourself open,” Bucky says.

“What?” Steve asks stupidly, his brain not quite willing to fill in that mental picture.

“Spread your ass open with your hands,” Bucky growls again, grabbing hold of Steve’s ass cheek and massaging it roughly in his hand. It awakens the hurt of the spanking anew and Steve moans, nodding.

His hands shake as he brings them behind himself, fingers digging into the flesh of his buttocks as he spreads himself even wider. His face is burning hot and he buries it in the couch, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Good,” Bucky croons, running his knuckles gently down the valley of Steve’s ass, rubbing over his sore hole, and Steve nearly sobs. Then there’s the twist and pop of a jar.

Bucky’s fingers are slick when they press against his anus; he’s pressing two inside now and the stretch feels overwhelming, a hot stinging sensation, and Steve presses into it, wanting more, moaning when Bucky’s knuckles sink inside, stretching him impossibly further. Twisting and stretching and hitting his prostate every time. The metal arm is heavy on his back, keeping him pressed into the couch, keeping his ass up and presented.

Bucky removes his fingers with a slow slide, giving Steve’s hole a final swirl like he’s inspecting it, and the thought makes Steve’s belly clench and his fingers dig into the flesh of his ass even harder until he can feel the pull at his hole.

The sound of Bucky’s zipper is surprisingly loud, and it makes arousal zing down Steve’s spine. He wants to turn around, wants to see, but Bucky hasn’t given him permission to move. The wet sounds of Bucky slicking up his cock make Steve’s breathing hitch. He wants to see what Bucky looks like, wants to fall to his knees and have Bucky feed his cock into his mouth, the hot wet slide of it down his throat.

But Bucky’s put him here, like this, open and ready. The metal arm is cool when it comes to grip Steve’s hip, holding him in place with its solid strength. The head of Bucky’s cock feels immense, so much larger than fingers had when he pushes it against Steve’s hole. He’s gasping, toes curling in his boots as Bucky presses inside. The slide of it burns, hurts, making Steve squirm in Bucky’s hold, his hips twisting and bucking, but Bucky doesn’t give him an inch, just keep pressing in, leaning over Steve’s back.

“That’s it, Stevie,” Bucky says, and Steve comes. He can’t help it, moaning and clenching around Bucky’s cock. Painting the side of the couch with his semen.

“Good,” Bucky groans into his ear as he lays himself over Steve’s back, and snaps his hips hard. Steve moans, over-sensitive and sore from his orgasm. “Such a good boy,” and then he’s fucking Steve properly. Rough thrusts of his cock shaking the couch, making it slide over the hardwood floor, and Steve can’t bring himself to care, fingers digging into the upholstery. He doesn’t even remember when he let go of his ass. Bucky doesn’t seem to care.

“I am,” Steve moans dazedly. “I’m your good boy.” He’s nearly crying now, relief and hope coalescing into one.

“You are,” Bucky croons, his thrusts erratic now, working his cock in and out, angling Steve’s hips for his own pleasure. Palming Steve’s thighs, his hips and ass, fingers sliding into the sweaty cleft and over Steve’s rim, rubbing him where they’re joined. He’s swollen and sore and it feels so good.

“Such a good boy,” Bucky says as he slips a finger inside Steve’s ass next to his cock, and Steve screams. He can feel Bucky’s cock then, twitching and flooding his ass with come. Bucky works through his orgasm, grinding into Steve’s ass, making him milk every last drop.

Then there’s a quiet stillness, their breaths the only sounds in the air of the dark apartment. They’re both such a long way away from Brooklyn.

Steve reaches back and wraps his hand around the metal wrist at his hip. “Please – please don’t go.” He’s gripped with the memory of himself leaving every time. Scrambling up and hiding in his bedroom until Bucky had gone to sleep and never, ever talking about it.

Bucky sags against his back. “I’m no good for you Stevie,” he sighs, sounding so wistful that it breaks Steve’s heart all over again.

“Please, Buck, please just stay.” His voice hitches at the last word, no matter how steady he tries to make it.

He can feel Bucky laying his head on his shoulder even through the armor of the suit, his softening cock still inside of Steve, and he tightens his grip on Bucky’s wrist. Not wanting to let him go.

“I don’t –” Bucky starts. He sounds wrecked. “I don’t deserve –”

“You do, you do, please Buck,” Steve’s gasping before Bucky can finish, nearly crying now. “I can’t, I can’t do this without you anymore. I don’t want to. Please.”

“Shhh, Steve, shhh, it’s okay.”

Bucky’s other hand is petting the side of his hip, gentle over the bruises forming and healing there. He pulls Steve up with him, soft, wet cock slipping out of Steve’s body with such suddenness that it makes him gasp. Makes the tears fall. Steve closes his eyes, fighting them as much as he can.

He can feel Bucky pulling up his BDUs, the fabric rough on his skin. He doesn’t do a very thorough job, just hitches them above Steve’s hips and leaves them undone. Then he takes Steve’s hand and leads him through the dark hallway and into the bedroom.

They strip each other in the dim light filtering through the curtains. The blinking lights of red and gold painting abstract patterns on skin. Steve knows they should shower, but he doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to turn on the lights or even hear the running water. Bucky seems to feel it too, because once they’re naked he just pulls Steve into the bed, under the heavy down duvet Tony had insisted on when Steve moved in.

He curls around Steve’s back like a shield, and Steve lets himself cry. It feels good, like a release, pressing Bucky’s hand to his mouth, sucking two fingers into his mouth. He wants to make sure it’s real. Bucky just hums into his shoulder and presses closer, metal palm safe and secure over Steve’ belly.

Steve falls asleep with Bucky’s fingers between his teeth, tongue pressed into the tips, sucking gently.

When he wakes up, the morning is bright. Almost looks like it had snowed overnight, covering New York in a blanket of white.

The bed is empty, but the spot next to Steve is still warm. He hears a bang and curse from the kitchen. Quickly, he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and makes his way to the living room. Steve still doesn’t have a tree or decorations or even presents, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is the sight of Bucky, his long hair in a sleepy bird’s nest trying to work Steve’s Keurig.

He’s still there. He’d stayed.

“Steve, how the fuck does this hell-machine work!?” Bucky shouts, and Steve smiles so hard his face might crack.


End file.
